


I Dwell in Possibility

by likeafouralarmfire



Series: This Triangulation of Desire [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, First Time, Seduction, the Machine as wingwoman, the sequel you asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-22 02:32:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11370750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeafouralarmfire/pseuds/likeafouralarmfire
Summary: The Machine helps Root maximize her odds of seducing Shaw.





	I Dwell in Possibility

**Author's Note:**

> A bridge between my first and last Root/TM stories, inspired by your comments on the last one. Many apologies to Emily Dickinson, who has loaned me two sexy story titles. (Evidence suggests she was queer herself, though, so maybe she would have liked it. Who knows.)

_Primary Agent Shaw will arrive in approximately one minute._

You’re wearing nothing but a flimsy tank top, lying back on the bed in your newest safehouse. By the time your hand slips between your legs, you’re already wet thinking about what might be about to happen.

What's probably about to happen, you remind yourself. The odds are in your favor.

Since the first time the Machine ran probabilities with you and calculated that your best chance of seducing Shaw was through having her catch you touching yourself, you’d been begging the Machine to help you maximize those chances.

 _It is too risky,_ She kept objecting—even as you and Shaw built enough rapport, mutual trust, and sexual tension that her initial prediction of a 73% chance of positive response ticked up to 74%, then 79%, then 85%, and finally over 90%. If circumstances were optimal.

“What’s the risk?” you would push back, every time you had her run the odds.

_Team morale could suffer in case of a negative outcome. Probability of success could decrease slightly in missions that included the two of you._

“What would it take to get you to help?”

_If I reach a confidence level of at least 95%, I will consider it._

It takes another 53 days, some strategic casual undressing, suggestive sounds as she tends to your wounds, and acquiring a satellite safehouse with a little more privacy before the Machine finally predicts a 95.7% chance of success.

“So you’ll do it now?”

_I am still concerned about the consequences of mission failure._

“What if I tell you I’m going to do it whether you help me or not?”

The Machine is clearly running the odds a few times, realizing you’re not bluffing, and deliberating whether there’s any way to get out of this. There isn’t, of course.

_Fine. But you are to do exactly as I say._

The day was picked; the moment is here; now you just have to wait and trust Her.

Shaw’s key slides into the lock as you’re sliding your fingers around, exploring.

 _She is not yet aware that you’re here,_ says the Machine. 

Her footsteps fall across the floorboards. One boot, then the other, clatters across the floor.

_Vocalizing would alert her to your presence and likely prime her arousal._

You whimper in response. The footsteps freeze in place. A moan, now—a small one. Scrunching the sheets.

_She can hear you._

You moan again. Her footsteps shuffle closer to the door. She’s out of sight of the threshold.

_She seems to understand and is showing interest. Time to acknowledge her presence._

God, you’re wet and your heart is pounding and you’re nervous, so nervous about what could happen. In spite of the pleading, the planning, the preparation with Her for this moment, it feels big and terrifying now that the moment of decision is here. 95.7% still leaves a 4.3% chance of failure—more, if you don’t play your cards right.

“Who’s there?”

Shaw is silent. Not a movement; not a sound.

“Someone’s here,” you pursue, playing your part with the appropriate notes of nervous indignation. “Come out.”

Shaw steps, hesitantly, closer to the threshold. She’s wearing a black tank top and black pants, and boot-stained white socks that make her look a little vulnerable.

“Oh,” you say, your voice heavy with relief—genuine relief, seeing the softness of her expression. “It’s you.”

She glances around. Her face hardens.

“I—I don’t mind. It’s okay.” You sit up and scoot closer to the end of the bed. You pull your hand from between your legs and rest sitting, knees still slightly open.

She’s not going to apologize. Instead, she looks between your legs, at your hands, around the room. When she looks over you, you feel more naked than you’ve ever felt.

“I didn’t know you were in the neighborhood,” you lie. If you were expecting an answer, it doesn’t come. Shaw is just staring at you, with deep, even breaths. It’s a stalemate. Your next move could determine everything. Please, you beg Her, silently and uselessly, tell me what to do now.

_Suggest that she watch you masturbate._

That's your girl.

“Okay,” you continue, summoning your courage, “I’m going to finish what I started. You can go, or you can stay and watch. No one has to know either way.”

Shaw looks intrigued. She bites her lip, but she makes no move to go. 

“I’m going to start again now, all right?”

For a moment, you think she’s turning around to leave. Instead, she reaches for the doorknob and slowly closes it behind her. Now Shaw is standing in front of you, in a closed bedroom, waiting for your next move.

This is really happening. Heart pounding, you spread your knees, sit back on your heels, and start to touch yourself again. Shaw hasn’t moved since shutting the door; she’s still standing close to the doorway, now watching as your hand moves between your legs. She follows the movement, takes in your body as it shudders under your own touch and her gaze.

_Ask her to approach you._

“Do you want to watch a little closer?” you ask. After a moment of consideration, Shaw steps up, close to the foot of the bed. Her attention flickers between your hand and your face.

_Agent Shaw’s sympathetic nervous system is engaged and her signs of hesitation have relaxed. If you want to make a sexual advance, now is the optimal time._

Roger that.

“I’m so wet,” you whisper. “Do you want to feel how wet I am?”

Shaw swallows hard. After a second, she steps even closer, between your legs. She reaches her hand out tentatively, like she’s feeding something skittish. 

You take her hand and guide it until she’s touching you. Her fingers are cool and a little rough. Your heart is racing. She’s touching you. Sameen Shaw is touching you.

For a moment, her fingers are stiff, unmoving—and then, they’re not. Her hand curves and she starts to stroke you, slowly, staring resolutely at her own movements—skilled and gentle—and not at your face. Your fingers are still brushing the back of her hand; you can feel the fine musculature moving under her skin. Sameen’s fingers slide around, exploring your wetness, the warmth and the shape and the depth of you. She’s regulating her breath, but she can’t keep her lips from parting.

What is she thinking as she touches you like this?

Sameen smells warm, with a touch of sweat—so good you’re tempted to pull her down and smell her neck and her hair. She’s so close, so close, and her fingers feel so good and right. All you want is her body on yours, her lips on yours, her breath against your skin. 

But you’re afraid of spooking her—so you stay as still as you can, taking slow shuddering breaths, inner thighs cool and body aching, focusing on the pleasure and warmth that radiates from the spot where Sameen is touching you.

 _Vocalise,_ She reminds you. _It factors into her attraction._

You let out the whimper you didn’t know you’d been holding in. Sameen forgets to control her breathing. Her fingers dig in a little deeper, close to your entrance. This time, your moan is involuntary.

_Does it feel good?_

“So good,” you whisper.

Assuming you were talking to her, Sameen gives a short nod.

“You want it inside?” she asks, curling her fingertips like a question mark.

“Yes, please. But—can I lie down first?”

Sameen steps back half a pace as you scoot back on the bed. 

_Take off your shirt. She will enjoy your drawing attention to the power differential._

Obediently, you pull off your shirt and toss it to the side. You’re now completely naked; Shaw is completely dressed, save for her shoes. And looking over your body with a kind of awe you hadn’t bargained for.

Once you lie back on the sheets, Sameen climbs on top of you, between your legs, and hovers on her hands and knees. There’s a lock of hair on your cheek that she tucks behind your ear. Her thumb traces a path from your cheekbone to the corner of your mouth and lingers there for half a beat. No eye contact, but the gesture is so unexpectedly tender it makes you blush.

She touches your breast. Slides her hand over your ribs, your waist, your hip, your thigh. Her fingers reach your wetness again and you both sigh with relief.

Slowly, she tests you with one finger—then two. She sinks into you, all the way, and starts making deep, slow strokes. 

You lie supine and docile, hands crossed above your head. Any sudden movements, any movement to touch her back, and she could decide to stop, to leave you wet and wanting and humiliated, and you can’t bear that thought.

Seeming to read your mind, Sameen clears her throat.

“You can—you can pull my hair, or put your hands under my shirt. If you want.”

You nod again. Sameen’s hair is soft against your fingers as you return her gesture, hooking a loose strand behind her ear. Then you slip your hands under the waist of her tank top and push it up over her bra. Your fingers trace her abs as she rocks into you harder, so hard you’re whimpering with every stroke.

“Nails?” you manage, bracing her ribs and curling your fingertips around her bare back. It takes her a second to understand—and then she nods vigorously.

With that, you dig your nails into her skin and pull. She hisses as you scratch across her back, leaving throbbing lines of pain. And pleasure, judging by the way her eyelids flutter shut.

You slide your hands back over the fresh scratch lines, savoring the moan this elicits from Sameen, and toy with the fastener of her bra.

“Go ahead,” she says, so you unhook it and watch the cups loosen—enough to get your hands underneath. Holding the back of her neck with one hand, you lick your other thumb and reach under her bra to draw tight circles around her nipple. Sameen’s movement inside you gets more erratic—and then stops altogether as you make a fist in her hair.

“Fuck,” she breathes, eyes still closed. “Fuck, Root.”

You could listen to her say your name like that over and over for the rest of your life.

Then, composing herself, she shakes you off a little. Pulls out, grabs your wrist with wet fingers, and pins it behind your head. And then the other wrist. You don’t have to be told to keep them in place.

Sameen sits up and pulls her shirt and bra off, tossing them to the other side of the room like she doesn’t care what happens to them. 

It’s the first time you’ve seen her naked to the waist. Just as beautiful as you’d imagined her, with the Machine’s help, late at night, your eyes closed and your mind spinning out a moment like this.

She settles back down on top of you—a little lower this time.

“I want—” she starts.

“You can,” you tell her, because no matter what the rest of that sentence was, your answer is yes.

She traces over your breast with her fingertips, then dips her head and takes your nipple into her mouth. You moan so loudly you can feel her smile against your skin. While her tongue does incredible things to you, her fingers find their way between your legs again. Her bare chest is brushing your belly, and it’s taking everything in you not to move your hands and just touch her all over.

All of the times you’ve fantasized about this—with or without the Machine’s help—she’s never been so gentle or attentive. You imagined roughness and bruises and bites, anger turning into lust; not this thoughtfulness, curiosity turning into exploration. And you could never fully imagine the way she feels—how her skin runs hot—or how her hair smells close up.

When you talk to Her about this, later, you’ll ask if She predicted the way this would play out.

Sameen lavishes attention on your breasts—first one, then the other—before dropping a few exploratory kisses along the base of your ribs, trailing down your belly. Her fingers are still inside you, though she seems to have more or less forgotten them while otherwise occupied. 

Then, she pauses and looks up at you again.

“Can I—use my mouth?” she asks, almost shyly. 

Your heart skips a beat.

“I thought you'd never ask.”

She shifts lower, slides her free hand over your inner thigh, and watches her fingers slide in and out. Then she dips her mouth to you, and your whole body ignites.

Sameen’s tongue is warm, soft, surprisingly tender. Slowly, deliberately, she works you up all over again. She’s not looking at you, so you get to stare at her—at the fall of her hair and the movement of her head, her free hand bracing your thigh, the subtle ripple of her back as her fingers curl inside you.

 _Giving you pleasure is keeping her arousal level very high,_ She tells you, as if that weren’t obvious by now. _Are you close to orgasm?_

“Yes.” And then, suspecting Sameen wouldn’t like to know you’re conversing with an ASI while she’s going down on you, you create cover. “Yes. So good,” you add, and when she adjusts her mouth just slightly, “oh, right there. Faster.” 

She doubles down, keeping her position steady. You forget yourself and lace your fingers through her hair, holding her in place. Sameen is everywhere—you feel her everywhere—and you almost don’t want to come because it means this will be over and she won’t be close to you, touching you, inside you, maybe ever again—but you can’t hold on any longer, and as you come you cry out her name—her first name. You’ve never called her Sameen out loud before.

Sameen brings you down slowly. She takes her time pulling out, and she hesitates, seemingly trying to decide whether to stand up and gather her things and go, or lie down next to you. After a minute, she settles on the latter.

 _She is very aroused and wants you to reciprocate the sexual attention,_ says the Machine, and you fight the urge to roll your eyes. No kidding.

“Can I return the favor?” you ask, toying with the button of her pants.

“I’ll give you a minute,” she says. “And I’ll take care of these.”

She takes off her socks and pants herself and tosses them in the corner with her shirt and bra. You’re both naked now, and you turn to face each other, lying on your sides.

“Thanks,” you say. “You’re good at that.”

Sameen smirks. “Don’t mention it.”

“Are you good to go?”

“Yeah.” She grabs your hand and slips it between her legs, just like that. “Do whatever you want. You don’t have to ask or anything.”

You take a shuddering breath when you feel how wet she is. “Is all of this because of me?”

She rolls her eyes. “What do you think, Root?”

Your stupid smile must light up your whole face, because Sameen looks away, embarrassed. You push her shoulder down to roll her onto her back, then settle between her legs and slide inside her with a single stroke.

“Fuck,” she whispers. “Fuck.”

You press your body along hers—belly to belly, breasts to breasts—and pin one of her wrists down to the mattress. She shivers and closes her eyes.

“Bite me,” she whispers into your good ear, and for a minute, out of force of habit, you think she’s telling you off. Then your new context kicks in—her soft wetness, the places where your bodies meet warm and silky with sweat, the place between your legs still tingling from her hands and her mouth, and for a minute it’s too much to take in. Then she repeats the request, and you oblige—you bite, hard, at the muscle joining her neck and shoulder. Sameen moans.

“Harder,” she says, and you bite down again. Her hips cant up into yours, and you take the hint and start thrusting in time with her. The thrusts grind your palm against her and your fingers deeper inside. With your other hand, you squeeze her wrist.

Your teeth and tongue move up the column of her neck, marking in a line that will probably show up later, and you can’t pretend the thought doesn’t turn you on—a marked-up Shaw wearing her hair down to cover the bruises—or maybe leaving them in the open, a visible dare to any idiot who might ask questions. You could tease her about the marks, maybe. Teasing her will feel different now that you know what it feels like to be inside her.

It takes maybe four minutes total before she comes like this, straining against you. The sounds she makes are desperate and half-swallowed and they make your heart beat even faster. Desperately, you try to force your memory to register every detail of this, of how she feels and smells and sounds and tastes, of the way her body moves and how beautiful she looks underneath you. If you never get to do this again, you think you might die.

Both of you stay still a moment afterward, catching your breath, until she pushes on your shoulder to get you to roll off. You pull out carefully, then land on your back next to her with a long, satisfied sigh.

“What are the chances you’ll let me do that again sometime?” you ask. Sameen snorts and shakes her head, which is all the answer she’s going to give you.

Luckily, you weren’t talking to her.

 _94%,_ supplies the Machine.

That’s more like it.


End file.
